


Promises From Me to You

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Fisting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 22:20:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Pete talks Patrick into trying fisting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promises From Me to You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dancinbutterfly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinbutterfly/gifts).



The first time Pete says anything about it, they're lying in bed, slick sides and stomachs and chests pressed together, still catching their breaths. Pete's mouth is pressed to Patrick's chest, smearing the sweat as he whispers into his skin. Patrick's hand goes still in Pete's hair, his fingers locking up.

"I want you to fist me," Pete says, voice low and still raw from sucking dick. Patrick feels something like terror settle low in his stomach. 

"Pete-"

"Don't answer me now." Pete touches his fingers to the back of Patrick's wrist softly. "Just. Think about it."

Patrick says nothing, and Pete doesn't ask him to.

\---

Patrick's almost forgotten about it the next time Pete brings it up. They're sitting on the floor of the bus, squeezed between the bunks, legs folded. Patrick's holding his acoustic guitar, tilting it up awkwardly to keep the headstock from hitting anything. Pete is staring at his fingers on the frets.

"I still want it," Pete says, eyes flicking up to catch Patrick's.

"I'm not putting that line about Bach in-"

"Not that."

Patrick looks up at him, frowning. Pete's watching him, face carefully calm, and Patrick feels himself go hot because he remembers Pete's tongue slipping wet on his collarbone, and tangled sheets, and tension buried in his chest.

"Pete-"

"It's not always about sex," Pete says. Then he stands and leaves Patrick alone with his guitar. Patrick hugs it to his chest and tries not to think about it.

\---

Patrick is sitting in a diner, staring at his hands. He's never really done it before, never thought much about them. His palms are large and square, and his fingers are long and a little chubby. He's never bitten his nails, so they're blunt ended, kept meticulously short for playing.

He thinks about Pete, thinks about how tight he always is, remembers the sound of pain from the first time, years ago. He crosses his first two fingers, scrubs at a coffee stain on the table with them. Pete's voice is ringing in his ear, _it's not always about sex_ stuck on repeat. Patrick closes his eyes. It's not about sex at all.

\---

Patrick licks a long trail up Pete's stomach, fingers wrapped around Pete's hips. Pete's skin is hot, smooth and damp and dark. The line of Pete's throat is long, his head tipped back, eyes closed. Patrick presses a kiss to his adams apple before sliding down Pete's body again.

Pete groans when Patrick wraps a loose hand around his cock, hips lifting up. Patrick murmurs soft sounds against the inside of Pete's thigh, watching Pete's chest rise and fall. When Pete looks down at him, Patrick closes his lips over the head of Pete's cock and sucks softly. Pete's head falls back against the flat hotel pillow. Patrick pumps his fist and lowers his head, tongue pressed hot and flat to the underside. Pete swears, fingers curling into the sheets.

Patrick's building up his nerve, hands restless on Pete's thighs and hips as he pushes himself further down, nearly gagging himself. Pete's whining high in his throat, thighs shaking with the effort to keep still. Patrick pulls off, lips too wet, eyes watering.

"Flip over," he says. Pete does, lifting his hips long enough for Patrick to shove a pillow under them. He sighs into his folded arms when Patrick kisses the small of his back. Patrick runs his hands over the swell of Pete's ass, spreading him open with his thumbs.

Pete presses back as Patrick licks once gently over his hole. Patrick does it again, then again, fingers digging into the soft give of Pete's skin to keep him still. When Patrick curls his tongue around the outside of his hole, Pete jerks. When Patrick presses inside of him, Pete moans.

Patrick works Pete open with his tongue, letting Pete rock back against his face. When Pete asks for it, Patrick slides a finger into him, licking sloppily around it. Pete shoves back, thighs tense. Patrick crosses his first and middle fingers and presses them inside, crooking them up. Pete shouts wordlessly, hips jerking back to meet them.

"Fuck me," Pete says, breathless. Patrick takes a deep breath and slides his ring finger in, too. He thrusts them in and twists. The sound Pete makes gives him shivers.

"We could do it," he says against Pete's thigh. "If you still want." Pete moans, rocking back.

"Please," he says. It hits Patrick somewhere in his heart. Pete whines when Patrick pulls out, raising up onto his knees, forehead pressed to his forearms.

Patrick pulls a tube of lube from his pocket and slicks his hand to the wrist, fingers shaking. Pete's bared open to him, exposed and raw. Patrick takes a slow breath before touching him again, trying to steady himself.

"Tell me if it hurts," he says, sliding three fingers back in.

"I trust you," Pete gasps out, and Patrick's heart clenches.

"I know," he says softly.

He spreads his fingers apart, listening to the soft noises Pete's making. He catches the soft hitch when he twists too hard, the sigh when his knuckles brush lightly over Pete's prostate. He's being too careful, slow and methodical as he stretches Pete open as wide as he can.

"Use another one," Pete says, rolling his hips back. Carefully, Patrick slips the tip of his pinky in, stilling his hand.

Pete's breath hitches again, his fists closing tightly. Patrick kisses between his shoulderblades, rubs his hip with his free hand. Slowly, so slowly, he presses in to the second knuckle. Pete squirms until Patrick makes him hold still.

"I need you to tell me if it's too much, Pete," Patrick says.

"It's fine. I'm fine." Pete's fingers loosen in the sheets, shoulders sliding down further. "Don't stop."

Pete's soft and hot on the inside as Patrick works his hand forward, inch by inch, until his knuckles disappear.   
Pete groans. It's a pained sound, and Patrick wants to stop, to pull back and roll Pete over and hold him. Like he knows, probably because he does, Pete throws an arm back, listing off to one side, and wraps his fingers around Patrick's wrist. Patrick holds his breath as Pete's fingertips move down, down, until he's touching the spaces where Patrick's inside of him.

Patrick's been thinking of this as giving Pete something, of fulfilling something. But, watching Pete's hand slide back to the bed, Patrick feels something in his chest expand, sees how far into Pete he is, and-

"I love you," he says into Pete's thigh. Pete laughs, a breathless sound that makes him close tighter around Patrick's fingers. When Pete relaxes around him again, Patrick pulls back. He pours more lube over his hand, tucks his thumb in under his fingers. "Breathe in," he says. Pete does, back lifting in anticipation. "Breathe out." When Pete starts, Patrick eases his hand forward.

It feels too tight, and he can see Pete biting his wrist, face scrunched up in pain. Just when he's about to stop, to pull back, the widest part of his hand passes through, and. And he's inside Pete, up to the wrist, feeling Pete inside like no one else ever has.

Carefully, he closes his fingers into a fist, knuckles grazing over the bump of Pete's prostate. Pete moans softly, holding himself still. Just as gently, Patrick uncurls his fingers and begins to slide back out.

When his hand's free, Patrick wipes it with the corner of a sheet, kicking it discreetly to the floor when he's done with it. Pete rolls onto his back, loose and lazy. His erection's faded, but his smile is so bright it hurts a little.

Patrick crawls into his arms, pressing his face into the damp curve of Pete's neck. He smiles when Pete kisses his forehead.

"Thank you," he says, closing his eyes. Pete laughs again, quiet and soft.

"Anytime, Rick."


End file.
